


Out of Backwards Sidewise Towards Fromwards

by rednihilist



Series: The Longest Road [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Drama, F/M, Gen, Mindwiping, Reverse Chronology, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And while we cannot know all<br/>Whereof is getting said about<br/>Anyone by being as though abandoned could realize<br/>Close up how being left, felt."<br/>~Kenneth Burke</p><p>Or, Bucky falls for a very long time and then eventually gets back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Backwards Sidewise Towards Fromwards

**Author's Note:**

> No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> Title from the Kenneth Burke piece of the same name.
> 
> A/N: Here, have 8,000+ words of my headcanon Winter Soldier feels. Also, you know how _Memento_ is told backwards--in reverse chronological order? Yeah, that's this, too. The beginning is the end, the end the beginning, etc. Consider yourself warned.

  
And it's not smooth sailing, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he honestly doesn't give a rat's ass whether or not it's easy.  
  
It _is_ ; it's true. Wasn't a dream, but wasn't real either, and now. . .  
  
Bucky gets up, wakes up and goes to sleep and wakes up again, and it's always still there, everything there, every single thing.

* * *

"Do I say I'm sorry and you hit me, or is this one of those times I get a smile out of you?"

She makes a breathy sound at that, probably a snort but could be a sigh, and then her left hand lands just above his knee.  
  
"You know what it means when you save someone's life?" he asks, all but staring at her profile in an attempt to get her to actually look at him.  
  
"In this case," she says, "it means we're even."  
  
Bucky slowly moves his hand up and lays it on top of hers over his knee. It takes a few seconds, but she eventually turns it over, palm up, and he interlaces their fingers, squeezing and holding her close the only way she'll let him.  
  
"I don't mean just this," he says, looking around them.  
  
"I know," she replies, and there's that note in her voice, familiar in a hazy way but true and real—and it makes something in his chest tighten up, a coiling thing that then slowly starts slipping through his body.  
  
"I can't say it," he confesses.  
  
"James," she says, quick, quiet, and almost sharp, but her voice is thick and deep with emotion, and he's guessing it's not anger.  
  
"But it's there," he continues. "It's real." Another squeeze to her hand, and then he leans back against the wall behind them, going for casual assurance—as much for his own sake as hers. "I'll get to it eventually," he says—repeats, a mantra. Something, another thing, a truth he can feel.  
  
And then where Natasha, SHIELD agent and Avenger, has calmly been sitting, suddenly there is Natalia turning to face him and meet his eyes.  
  
"I have no doubt you will," she says in Russian, squeezing his hand in return, in goodbye, in good luck, before standing and leaving him to it.

* * *

It's got to be at least another day before they're full circle again and Steve comes striding back into the cell, this time looking all hopeful and grinning like a fool.  
  
"Jesus, Bucky," Steve breathes out, rushing up but stopping dead in his tracks about a foot away.  
  
"Hey, punk," he manages to get out, and then he's standing and Steve's pulling him into a hug, and, yeah, it's awkward as hell, and he's still feeling weird about the arm, but it's perfect.  
  
"You jerk," Steve practically hisses, and Bucky's smiling.  
  
"Missed you too, you big baby," he replies and feels it as Steve huffs—a sob, a chuckle, and an indignant snort, all at once—and Bucky just hangs on to him tight in response.

* * *

And then Bucky's opening his eyes again to bright light, white walls, sheet, clothing, floor. The door reflects warped pictures of the bed, the one-way mirror, and the only sound that registers is the low hum of electricity running through the light fixtures overhead. He attempts to sit up and falls back flat, unbalanced, startled.

His left arm isn't there and hasn't been for a long, long time, but the cybernetic prosthetic is absent, as well.  
  
Bucky blinks, and it comes back to him, the intake process, the pat downs, the questions. He remembers it. SHIELD. He blinks again, turning his head on the pillow. One-way mirror, cameras all around, audio, and he looks and looks. He looks and blinks and breathes.  
  
"I would," he says after awhile, "do just about anything right now for a cup of coffee." And then he puts on a grin for the folks watching and works at sitting up. It's been so long since he's really been awake, and he's never had to navigate moving around lopsided like this.  
  
The door to the room opens, and there's a cup of coffee in the agent's hand as he steps inside.  
  
And there's a look on the agent's face, something deliberate and yet reckless as he holds out the ceramic mug.  
  
"Don't worry," Bucky can't resist saying, "I'm unarmed."  
  
And of course Coulson smiles at the joke.

* * *

James abruptly wakes up with his hand around someone's throat and his whole body pinning that person, man, huge guy, to the floor.  
  
"What the hell?" he breathes, and the guy under him makes this disbelieving face, all huge eyes and open mouth—and that could also be James strangling him.  
  
He throws himself back, crawling away to the other side of the cell as fast as he can one-armed and panicking.  
  
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he curses, and then his back hits the corner behind the cot, and he falls on his ass.  
  
He's making horrible, wheezing sounds, gasping for air, and his eyes can't stick on any one point, just fly in every direction as he looks and looks and looks.  
  
The door to the cell is closed, and the lights are still dim, and the guy in here is a fool, either trying to kill him or break him out or– or–  
  
"Bucky?" the man whispers suddenly. Still down on the floor, but he's sitting up and staring right this way, rubbing a hand at his neck.  
  
"What– what do you think you're doin'?!" James hisses at him.  
  
The guy flinches and ducks his head for a second, but then he's back to staring, that stupid, brave look on his face.  
  
"I needed to see you," he says. "Needed to—make sure you were okay."  
  
James feels his mouth drop open, and then he laughs, loud and harsh. He sounds fucking crazy right at the moment, but he's not the one breaking into a war criminal's cell for–  
  
"You bust in here for a chat?" he snaps back, and that just makes the _real_ crazy person here buck up even more. The guy's head lifts up, jaw tightens, and he's got that ridiculous, stubborn, mule-face on again, which means–  
  
Which. Means. Again. That look.  
  
James blinks, stares. He looks, really fucking looks.  
  
"Bucky? You– you okay?"  
  
"Don't have the sense God gave a flea," James whispers. Then: "Swear to fucking Christ, Steve, I damn near killed you!"  
  
Then the lights burst on, full blast, and Steve's moving closer, and the door flies open, agents spilling inside like cockroaches, armed and targeting him, Soldier, James—Bucky.  
  
"Steve," he says, blinking, and it's when he lifts his arm, reaching for Steve, right there, right ther–  
  
One roach tranqs him, and it's lights out.

* * *

Days must pass, but he can't keep track. He doesn't try, doesn't look at the clock as it runs in his head. He instead follows. He sits or lies down and then sits and is talked at, sometimes talking himself. And he looks. He really looks.  
  
He is a soldier, The Soldier, and then beyond that is James. He has to work at it, but he can be James. He thinks of Natalia, and he is James. He thinks of the file, and James knows it's no surprise. He'd known, somewhere, that that was what was happening. 'Assassin,' James thinks.  
  
Eventually, the calm one introduces himself as Phil Coulson, the hesitant one Jimmy Woo.  
  
"You're new at this, aren't you?" James asks Woo at one point.  
  
Coulson turns and looks at Woo, and Woo frowns, glares really.  
  
"You're overcompensating," James confides, nodding then at Coulson. "Cool as a fucking cucumber. Hardly gives a damn thing away."  
  
Woo keeps frowning, but he actually nods a little. Doesn't look up or meet James' eyes, but that's still pretty big of him, considering who it is talking at him.  
  
"You seem to be in a pretty good mood today," Coulson observes.  
  
"I guess," James responds. "Feeling's still something of a lark, truth be told. Still workin' on other stuff."  
  
Coulson nods. "And have you managed to recall any additional information concerning Lukin? He still presents the most immediate threat."  
  
James shakes his head. "Nothing besides the plane ride. I know– I'm certain I was driven to the plane. It wasn't on the property, but any more than that," and he gestures at his head, "and it's just empty. Couldn't be far, though," he suddenly adds.  
  
Coulson looks at him carefully.  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
James blinks. "Same day. Still day, morning. Flight landed in the afternoon, local time 4 o'clock. Same day, though."  
  
Coulson nods, and Woo writes hurriedly. "So," Coulson says, a note of pride in his voice, "we'll work back from 4 o'clock." He turns to Woo. "That's, what, two hours offset from Greenwich Mean?"  
  
Woo shrugs, and James actually chuckles because if Coulson doesn't know—who the hell does?  
  
But then both agents are staring at him.  
  
"What?" he asks, sharply.  
  
Woo stares, pen in his hand loose and likely to fall any second. Coulson simply tilts his head and says, "That's the first time you've laughed since we caught you."  
  
"Since I let you catch me, you mean," James retorts, grinning.  
  
There goes Woo's pen.

* * *

Back to the cell. Nicer than most. Nowhere near Lukin's suite, of course, but it's actually an improvement on that. This is a blunt show of strength but not cruel and without any pandering, no tricks or charades. He is already here, surrendered to them, in fact. Surely, that is enough.  
  
More interchangeable agents. So many faces in his head already, but there is the one who will smile, the one who is terrified but hides it moderately well, the one who's in charge. No Natalia. And none of their other assets, the bright, flashy ones he saw when they caught up to him.  
  
"Can you explain to me this process called 'immersion programming'?" the second agent, the calm one, asks, eyes down on his notes.  
  
Looks up from the tabletop. Stares. Blinks.  
  
He blinks.  
  
"What is it you wish to know?" he finally asks.  
  
The agent then glances up, down, and once more up, folding his hands over the open file and looking him right in the eyes.  
  
"Maybe you can confirm whether or not you yourself have undergone this 'programming' and give us a brief summary of what exactly it entails."  
  
"Yes," he says. A moment later, in response to the agent's raised eyebrows, he says, "Many times."  
  
This agent calmly blinks, but the first one, the one somewhat scared of him, frowns.  
  
"How many?" the hesitant one asks.  
  
"I do not know," he answers.  
  
"Ballpark, then," the calm agent says. "Just a rough estimate."  
  
He blinks and looks. "This is my file, yes?" he asks, lifting his right hand high enough in the shackles to point at where the folder lies on the table.  
  
"Yes," the calm agent replies. A second later, "Did you want to see it?" as he turns it around and slides it across. "Keep in mind, this is only what we've managed to tie to you definitively. There's a whole lot more left over in the 'Guess' pile."  
  
"I do not need to see," he counters, looking up. "I wonder, though, how many you attribute to me—how many targets. This is what would answer your question."  
  
"As of now, that number is 57," the agent supplies.  
  
He nods. "Yes, and likely more, almost certainly more, but time and location, no doubt, would make it smaller. Half then, perhaps. 20? Or more. Likely more. I tell you the truth: I do not know." He looks down, the file there before him. "I will never know. It is gone."  
  
Silence. He has silenced them, and he smiles then, thinking now they might answer him.  
  
"She answered your questions, didn't she," he says, "when she came to you. And you would ask her again when you came for me."  
  
The calm agent meets his eyes and nods.  
  
"What does Natalia say?" he then continues.  
  
A moment, and then the anxious one turns and shares a look with the calm one. They turn back to look at him.  
  
"You can't see her until we've cleared you," the first says.  
  
He stares. That is not the question he'd asked.  
  
"Agent Romanoff. . . " the calm one begins, pausing briefly.  
  
He looks down at his hand on the table, unable to keep from smiling at the terrible name.  
  
"She provided detailed information regarding the results of such a procedure but was, understandably, unable to thoroughly describe the actual process itself. We're simply curious as to what you remember. Anything, everything, whatever comes to mind."  
  
They wait. He waits.  
  
"It is a room," he tells them. "One sits and does not remember. It is, as I have read it, 'wiping the slate.' This is what is meant. I went into the room," he says, and there is his hand in front of him and a list of things he has done, "and I did not come back out. I look," he then suddenly adds, raising his head and meeting the calm man's eyes, "and there is nothing there, but I know."  
  
"You said you didn't know a moment ago," the other agent interjects, and the calm one huffs at his partner in response, frowning, before turning back and gesturing for him to continue.  
  
He blinks, looking, looking, poking. "Some," he says, quietly, "would call it faith." Deep breath in, and then: "It's there. I'll get to it eventually."  
  
When he looks up, he blinks again, and it settles down once more.  
  
"I think," the calm agent says, "now might be a good time for a break."  
  
James raises his eyebrows, lifts his finger again, and sends the folder sliding back across the table.  
  
"Take that with you," he tells him.

* * *

There is no George, no Ida, and they repeat themselves in asking what he can say about these people he does not know, but he does not repeat himself.  
  
"I do not know them," he answers after the first inquiry.  
  
"Not even a little? A clue then: George and Ida were related, siblings."  
  
He does not repeat himself. He returns the stare and does not open his mouth.  
  
"And what about Rebecca?"  
  
"I do not know anyone called Rebecca," he answers.  
  
"You're sure? This would have been a long time ago. Perhaps if you just think about it a little more."  
  
He does not repeat himself. He does not know these people.  
  
He does not know them.  
  
Then the other agent speaks, the first he has done so in more than an hour.  
  
"Barnes," the agent says, and it is obviously important, obviously another name.  
  
"I do not," he answers, speaking slowly and enunciating very clearly in English, "know any Barnes."  
  
"You don't know who Barnes is?" the first agent asks, incredulous.  
  
And he does not answer because—he does not repeat himself.  
  
"No," the second agent responds, half a minute later, "he really doesn't."  
  
"Jesus," the first mutters.  
  
He smiles and looks the agent in the eyes. "That one," he says, "I know, although we are not so close these days."  
  
The second agent smiles and looks down, the first frowning and shuffling papers.

* * *

"Drop the weapon and put your hands up!" a voice then orders via megaphone.  
  
He doesn't, instead remains standing and looks, pushes up the NVGs, and starts to raise the gun once more. For now it is at an end, and this is the other side of matters. An anachronism, that is what he is become, a dangerous, unstable relic.  
  
What had happened? He is here, and he can barely remember why, how.  
  
Shouts in English to themselves, commands passed amongst them. Shouts to him all around, and the spotlight cast down from the helicopter, the headlights pushing out of the vehicles. It is a dark, moonless night and bright as a sunny, cloudless day.  
  
"We will shoot!" the voice on the megaphone states. "Drop your weapon and put your hands up, or we will shoot!"  
  
The ground force locks on him, a shifting sea of light across his chest, as they push in closer and closer.  
  
"Then shoot," he says, "and let this be the end."  
  
"Sir," one of the agents closing in shouts, "sir, this isn't– !"  
  
Lifts the barrel higher, takes a deep breath, and then a different voice sounds from on high.  
  
"James," it says, "put down the rifle."  
  
In Russian.  
  
"Do it now," the voice continues, "or I will jump out of this helicopter, James, and when I land I will come over there and cut your fucking nuts off!"  
  
Smiles and looks up—like he could spot her there through the glare of the spotlight at that great a distance.  
  
Shouts, "I missed you, too, Natalia!"  
  
Soon as the rifle lowers a hairsbreadth, the soldiers rush in, pin him to the ground. Hands run over, pulling away anything and everything. It is different this time, and he knows this, but he still periodically finds pieces of her tucked away in his head—so when he sees her, when the helicopter has landed and she slips out, he grins.  
  
Different, but still Natalia there underneath. Several people walk beside her, behind her, one above even, but he stares at her.  
  
"Black Widow!" he calls out cheerfully in Russian because even amidst all the sounds of English, all the Americans prowling around, she is somehow quintessentially Russian in her gait, her weaponry, her lack of expression.  
  
"Winter Soldier," she gamely returns, albeit in English. She eyes the restraints, these belt-like ties they've secured him with, and something shifts across her face, something he can't quite catch.  
  
Then, far back behind her, between her right shoulder and where the man next to her is standing, he spots his arm being carried away. She follows his line of sight, before turning back with raised eyebrows.  
  
"Can't remember the last time I saw you without that thing," she offers up briskly, but he's no fool. He hears what's being said underneath.  
  
"Me neither," he replies in English, holding her eyes for as long as he can. Then, the soldiers come and push him forward, taking him away past Natalia and her bright, colorful comrades. But, he manages to nod at her and thinks she will understand.  
  
"So, uh, what's the plan for Shitbag Number Three?" he hears one of them ask. "Our psycho didn't take him outta the gam– "  
  
"Stark!" a man immediately rebukes.  
  
And at the same time, another man says, "He's not a psycho, Tony!"  
  
He trips, stumbles and is then put in the back of a truck of some kind.  
  
"Dude's got a point, though," he just barely catches, right as the doors slam shut.

* * *

Snow, wind, cold, wind-chill, ice, elevation, velocity, trajectory—target acquired. Conditions considered, compensated, corrected.  
  
Confirmed. Target a GO.  
  
Squeeze.  
  
Target—success.  
  
15? 14, as of last time, and then there will be three today.  
  
So, 15.  
  
Confirmed. Target a GO.  
  
Sight. Squeeze.  
  
Target—success.  
  
16.  
  
Sights the third but never gets off the shot. In the distance, rapidly approaching, the whir and thump of helicopter blades. Sound growing heavier, louder by the second, a team of some sort rolling in with massive all-terrain vehicles full of—opposition, obstacles.  
  
Lukin will not be pleased.  
  
But, he– he laughs—then gets to his feet, grabs the equipment, and runs.

* * *

Wakes up to a man standing over him, smiling.  
  
They are always smiling.  
  
"What do you prefer to be called?" the man asks.  
  
The man is Lukin and seemingly holds him in high regard. The quarters assigned him are by no means small or Spartan, despite being located deep underground.  
  
"I am a soldier," he answers, staring at the wealth around him and finding himself empty. There is a great deal of stuff here. Is he to use it all?  
  
Beside him, Lukin nods and smiles, gesturing then expansively at the large bed, desk, and chairs. "You are more than just a soldier," Lukin counters. "You are a great asset, a national hero. I cannot refer to you simply as 'Soldier.' It would be— crude."  
  
He turns and looks Lukin in the eye. He then states, "Call me whatever you wish. I would know my orders now so I can properly execute them."  
  
Lukin laughs and slaps him on the shoulder. "I'll have any relevant information sent down directly," he says, "but, for now, relax and enjoy." He raises a hand and points at the door opposite them. "Your bathroom is through there, and everything here is yours. Please," he adds, "do not hesitate to ask for anything you may require. What's mine is yours."  
  
Lukin then leaves, long strides carrying him to and out the door.  
  
And everything is quiet and still, surroundings displaying such conspicuous consumption it almost makes his jaw ache. This much finery, hoarded beneath one roof and cluttering every available surface, is surely abhorrent.  
  
And it is somehow, for some unfathomable reason, apparently now his.  
  
Right.  
  
Deep breath in. Accept that as detestable as the situation certainly is, there likely exists no alternative at this point in time.  
  
There are new gadgets scattered about the place, technological devices the purposes of which are unknown to him. Another leap forward has occurred then. Innovation. Adaptation. Improvement. Perhaps his place, his role in the Revolution has changed, and he must change in order to truly serve.  
  
Another deep breath, and he steps farther into the room, over to the bed, slowly sits down at the edge of it, and closes his eyes when it registers how soft the mattress is.  
  
Never been in a place like this. Cots. Beds? Looks and then looks away.  
  
Always thus, always thus. Always.  
  
He practically sinks into it, just sitting there, warm and soft.  
  
And there is training and briefings, but different. It's all different.  
  
Different, but he doesn't– doesn't remember it—before. He looks, sometimes, inside, and something tells him he must look away, and he does—but, for a second, he sees.  
  
And he knows. It is different. Everything, every single thing, different, but not him. There is something there, inside, and they bleach over it, wipe the surface clean, blank and clear—but someone is underneath. This, he knows. And he looks away, but inside he does not.  
  
"Three targets," Lukin repeats, finishing up by extending his hand. "You ready?"  
  
Shake the hand, eye contact.  
  
"Of course. I am always ready to serve."

* * *

Sit and watch. Blink, blink, watch.  
  
Then, put away. Lie back, breathe out. Die, die again.  
  
Go away.  
  
Fall, and don't get back up.

* * *

Awake.  
  
Step out of the tank.  
  
"Comrade," scientist says. Fear.  
  
Nod.  
  
"The General is here to see you."  
  
Karpov.  
  
Smile.  
  
Shower, dress, escort.  
  
Greetings.  
  
Sleep and wake up and sleep, and there are moments, sometimes, when he is there.  
  
Then orders, and it is board a plane. It is fly to America. It is a drop point and a rifle and two targets.  
  
Leaves still blowing in the wind, yellow and brown where they should– should have been– should still be red. Too late, though, and he remembers that. Not this time of year. Not here. Busy streets, different overcoats, fewer if any hats. Leaves, though, and the chill, the cold of the City in the Winter.  
  
Winter City. Cold. Soldier.  
  
War. America. Sergeant and–  
  
Captain?  
  
Car.  
  
Shot to the tires, man driving, stipulation, wife in passenger seat. Arguing and fighting, twisting mouths, narrowed eyes, shoulders up to their ears, hands every which way. Don't get on too well anymore.  
  
There is a kid—not in the car, somewhere else, just one, away at school. Not a target. A boy, inheritance, carry on the tradition, uphold the family honor.  
  
_Time to grow up, punk._  
  
He sights the tire, passenger side. Forward—gone. Panic—hands too slow, wits too dull. Rear—gone. Right into another car. New cars, new styles of gear, same story. Couple dies tragically, mother, father, dead, orphaned son. And he remembers this one, has heard it before.  
  
_Now, you're getting warmer._  
  
Gas tank—gone.  
  
So's the couple. And a significant portion of the street.  
  
New York, New York, it's a helluva town. Talk of the world.  
  
Disassemble the rifle, put back in its case, and leave the roof. People on the stairs walk past. Emergency vehicles. Police. People on the street bump and jostle. Street lights are different. Case goes back into locker, train station, large windows, rushing people, accents and turns of phrase.  
  
This, he thinks. New York. Grand Central.  
  
He knows this, the men and women and sometimes children who stride by, pushing, always needing to be somewhere else right now this very instant. He has been here before. He knows this.  
  
Here, in this very spot.  
  
First mission in-country, though. More to follow, pending success. Never this far west.  
  
And he walks and walks, back to the scene, blinks.  
  
"Oh, my God! So horrible!"  
  
"Jesus, imagine the shitstorm over this!"  
  
"Don't they have a kid? That poor boy! I hope– hope he doesn't hear about it—like this, you know."  
  
"When can we get through? I live here, man!"  
  
It's the cameras.  
  
Cameras and their new film, recording for people safe and sound. One comes near, and he reaches out and takes it. People shout, pull back, scream. He looks down, drops the thing to the ground, metal twisting to release. Heads turn, police.  
  
And he runs and runs, climbs up high. He looks around and can't make it make sense.  
  
People come, eventually.  
  
"Home," he says. They look at him, and he nods.  
  
He knows.

* * *

He is put away cold and dead inside, something rotting and twisting within as he lies back and exhales, as the gel rises and swallows him whole, as he closes his eyes and falls and falls and falls.

* * *

Farm—house, barn, garage, storage, machinery, but it's neither rundown nor unoccupied. Doesn't pull his punches, goes in, comes out. Keys and food, clothing. Water. Map and currency. Drive away.  
  
No one is behind him until the fifth day. They surround him in Kitzbühel, and he laughs and laughs for no reason.  
  
Kitzbühel. Thirty miles, and it was freezing, but he didn't feel it. He walked out of there under his own power, head held high and, beside him– right there was–  
  
"Home sweet home," he abruptly says, as ten close in and one hits him with a tranq.

* * *

Then, he wakes up, and it's cold and hot simultaneously and noise, smoke—fire and gunfire, blurry, disconnected panic, wet and wet heat from blood. He grabs the discarded pistol from the floor, and it's slick with its former owner's blood, wet from the stasis fluid, hot from shots recently fired— _warm_ from the familiarity of it in his grip, the weight and balance of it. He is rolling, wet heat curling up his side as he goes, a stripe of red, always red— _warm_. Red blood, Red Russia, red lips, red hair, red Shiel–  
  
Grabs the pair of pants from the bench on his way out the door, already adjusting. The light is strobing, siren blaring. With dead scientists and soldiers in the room, in the halls, this is emergency protocol—suboptimal circumstances but reassuring nonetheless. Pressure is his guiding force; he acts accordingly.  
  
Twenty-three minutes later, the facility sustains critical damage, the upper two stories collapsing as the supports in the subbasement levels are compromised. He watches from a distance of one and a half km, the trees offering protection from the resulting debris as key sections of the building explode. Tire tracks, wind damage from aerial vehicles, recent, hasty evacuation and friendlies down, signs of enemies still in the area. The boots he'd salvaged don't fit, the coat sticky with patches of blood, the pants thin, but pistol tucked at his back and rifle smooth in his hands—it's cold, but he's not. Run and run and run to the horizon until a small series of structures rise up in the distance, smoke from the heat within, fire inside. Run down into the valley and onto the property.

* * *

He is put away cold, a spot in his chest tightening like he is missing something as he lies back and exhales, as the gel rises and swallows him whole, as he closes his eyes and falls—asleep.

* * *

He steps out carefully, and a different handler is there, waiting and recording everything on his little clipboard full of papers and numbers. There are no glasses on his nose and very few lines on his face. The floor is wet because there are no towels set down to soak up the liquid from the cryo chamber. The room is not the same, not the same at all.  
  
"Go clean up," the stranger orders him. "Another order's come down."  
  
James does not nod, but he goes.

* * *

He is put away warm, hot, his whole body burning with something as he lies back and exhales, as the gel rises and swallows him whole, as he closes his eyes and falls—asleep.

* * *

They task him with the ambassador, the female agent Natalia correspondingly assigned the man's wife. The report later confirms this course of events, goes into great detail about the mission. An elaborate fiction. The man died by strangulation—following Natalia's failed attempt at cutting his throat. The woman was terminated the instant she entered the room, the crack of her neck barely audible over the man's wet gurgling.  
  
And Natalia had looked at him that moment afterward, blood splashed on her right hand around the knife hilt. Wide eyes like the ambassador's in front of her, the man's mouth open in silent horror as his wife fell in a boneless heap before him—and it takes– took almost a minute to step over the woman's corpse and rectify the surprisingly sloppy work, metal tightening around the slick, hot red of the man's neck, throttling him.  
  
He killed both and lied for– because–  
  
The next mission is both more and significantly less difficult. East German defector. Undercover, he and Natalia pose as husband and wife.  
  
All goes according to plan until the second night. He is sitting with eyes on the street, and she is supposed to be sleeping. Then, the floorboards creak.  
  
"You don't remember me, do you?" her voice asks.  
  
Man lurches below, drunk and on his way home, bottle, likely gin, clutched tightly to his chest.  
  
"Now is your time to sleep," he replies.  
  
"I can't," she says, now standing directly to his left. She moves silently, gracefully.  
  
"In that case, I suggest you secure your kit and once more study the materials provided on our target—rather than further distracting me from watch."  
  
He thinks she will leave then, but instead she reaches out and touches him, a hand to his left shoulder, flesh to metal.  
  
He turns his head from the window and looks up at her face.  
  
"I am sorry for what happened in Minsk," she tells him, and he knows how much that admission costs her.  
  
He knows, even if he does not, as she said, remember. But, then, it has always been thus.  
  
He closes his eyes. "Some would it call it faith," he whispers, moving so he can reach across his body and put his hand, _his_ hand, warm and real, on top of hers over his shoulder.  
  
When he opens his eyes once more, she ever so slightly frowns at him—in confusion, he realizes, at his remark.  
  
"As though," he offers, in place of an answer and significantly lighter than before, "anyone does not know of the Black Widow."  
  
Natalia glares and brings her other hand up to slap him in the back of the head, and he grabs her then by the wrist and pulls her as far as she'll go. Flesh and bone, she is, and looking at her standing here before him, he knows there's more to this, more than what's here now, more than the two of them in this room.  
  
"What did you say to me before," he asks, "back in the Department?" He keeps his hand loose, just barely touching the thin skin of her wrist, telling her what this isn't, what he will not do, and leaving it to her.  
  
And so it's she who breaks through and pushes in. Natalia, with that same hand she used to slap him a moment before, now touches his face, his cheek and jaw, her eyes dark and reflecting back everything she sees, and yet this is the warmest he's ever seen her.  
  
"The perimeter," she says quietly, "is secure," and with that she takes a step back and—waits.  
  
And smiles.  
  
He doesn't blink and can't quite force a smile, but he gets to his feet and follows her.  
  
He doesn't answer her question, but she knew before she asked, and she doesn't even need to answer his question.  
  
He knows.

* * *

"Comrade," the female soldier says, pleasantly, warmly.  
  
He nods automatically in response, and she frowns. When he pins her on her back, she attempts to catch his eyes. When they demonstrate to the young recruits the correct response to aerial assault, she hisses into his ear a name. When they are finished, she does not move from the mat.  
  
"Is there something else?" he asks, calmly but quietly.  
  
She simply stares back at him, and he leaves when she does not answer.

* * *

And he wakes up.  
  
Steps out carefully, handler there, waiting and recording everything on his little clipboard full of papers and numbers, glasses on his nose, lines, more lines on his face. The floor is dry, towels soaking up the liquid from the cryo chamber. The room is the same but slightly different. He does not look too closely.  
  
"Shower," he is told. "You've been tasked with another assignment."  
  
He nods.  
  
Assigned mission objectives and new kit, briefed on the strange equipment, technology improving by leaps and bounds the last few assignments. Then he is released and flown in, dropped off and allowed free rein.  
  
Does not sleep but still draws out the process of infiltrating the traitor's subpar compound and retrieving all transportable data. It is a full week, when easily he could have carried out the orders to their fullest within 36 hours.  
  
Eats in a restaurant, purchases clothing, speaks words of slang, boards a train, obtains additional funds when that which was allotted by the Department runs out, and it is difficult, all of it, because it is not new, has always been thus, but he cannot remember doing it.  
  
He is successful and returns, but there are fewer familiar faces, different soldiers in the halls, new men in the debriefing, and there is a great deal more looking and staring as he goes about his business. There is more time in the gymnasium, but it is empty, only him. There are three sessions spent in the room, the chamber, chair, spent in the red, and this he knows because he had walked through the door. He is told he once more surpasses the physical expectations of field operatives, and he knows it is true, but he was never tested.  
  
He does not remember being tested, and it has always been thus, but he does not remember it.

* * *

He is put away cold, a spot in his chest tightening like he is missing something as he lies back and exhales, as the gel rises and swallows him whole, as he closes his eyes and falls—asleep.

* * *

Good aim, better than average. Works best in close proximity, though. Fast and smart but impatient. Systema is his but proves ill-suited for her. Points of Sambo work, but again her size and temperament are generally at odds with the demands of the discipline.  
  
Buza, he decides. Today, they will dance.  
  
"No," he says, catching her wrist and throat and taking the hits from her other hand on his chest, stomach, "that is incorrect." He releases her and shoves her back hard. Stumbling, almost tripping, and he snaps at her, "Keep your feet!"  
  
Five seconds, and she jumps to the side but not far enough. Work on judging distance and unconscious fear response. Break her of instinctive urge to retreat, defend, instead of absorb, adapt, and attack. He traps her on her back, testing her reaction to his lack of momentum, and she quickly wrestles her left leg free, knee swinging up. He flips her over, and she gets that knee under herself, pushes up in an attempt at throwing him off. He gets an arm under her, sliding it in against her stomach—and she curls close around it and dives forward in a flip, a perfect spin that wrenches his whole body, twists him up and gives her the chance to swing those legs around, immobilize him, and go for his face. Eyes.  
  
"Beautiful," he chokes out, smiling, and immediately she releases him. She stands first, doesn't offer him a hand up, and he huffs in amusement and rubs at his eyes carefully. When he is on his feet, he moves close and puts his face right in front of hers. "My little dancer," he says, and her eyes snap on to his. "I should have known," he adds a moment later, the sting finally fading, sight once more fully restored.  
  
He catches it as her lips just barely quirk up, quick and gone. A hand he places on her shoulder, light and then pulled back, gone again.  
  
The next day, the same. The day after, and after, and after. Natalia is movement and thought like lightning, what rarely shows on her face plain in her fighting. She teases with kicks that land on his thighs or lower abdomen, mocks his strength with her agility, pulls his hair, bites his hand, uses his cybernetic arm against him. James gives her tricks he's learned and techniques he simply knows, and there is something bracketing these training sessions—inside him, coiling and slipping through his body until the moments on the mat are what drive him.  
  
For months, it continues, months of moments of her. Then, evaluation, assessment, designation, assignment.  
  
She is there, and he kisses her hand. She smiles.  
  
He walks into the room behind Rodchenko and sits in the chair and closes his eyes.  
  
And then there is nothing.  
  
And he wakes up.

* * *

It is not until after the seventh mission success that he is called upon to assist in the training of recruits.  
  
He follows the two soldiers as they escort him down halls, past doors and interior windows, surrounded by tile and concrete, sweat in the brick, blood in the corners. Without proof, he knows it is snowing outside, cold inside, breath appearing in clouds before their mouths, hands tucked away safely in pockets, hidden in gloves.  
  
They halt before a doorway, no hinges, no door proper, and within are grunts, thuds, jeers. The soldiers step to either side of the doorframe, and he precedes them into the room, gymnasium, mats on the floor, posters on the wall, and children wrestling, boxing, knocking each other about with staffs, cutting one another's legs out from under them and pressing steel blades to their throats.  
  
Another soldier, officer, turns with a frown and then walks over. A quick nod, and he gestures to follow him across the room to where two of the children are locked together, boys or young enough to look as boys do. One other stands near, a teenager, smiling and tossing out insults, threats, stirring the two fighting into higher frenzy.  
  
"The redhead," the officer at his side says, confirming his suspicions.  
  
He nods in answer.

* * *

Steps out carefully, handler there, waiting and recording everything on his little clipboard full of papers and numbers, glasses on his nose. The floor is dry, towels soaking up the liquid from the cryo chamber. The room is the same but slightly different.  
  
"Shower," he is told. "You've been tasked another assignment."  
  
He nods.

* * *

He is put away cold, lies back and exhales, as the gel rises and swallows him whole, as he closes his eyes and falls—asleep.

* * *

He sleeps and wakes up and sleeps, and there are moments, sometimes, when he is not there.

* * *

Guards, right when he awakens, and he is clearly being closely monitored. Perceived errors in mission completion or a routine assessment, he does not know, but he attempts to sit up on the cot and they are instantly directly above him.  
  
He overbalances for some reason, falling to his left as the heavy weight from his shoulder, familiar, and he knows it has been there for—a long time, still somehow surprises him. The hand awkwardly hits the floor with a heavy metallic clang, the elbow joint knocking against the cot frame serving as counterpoint. He looks down and hesitates before pulling the limb up with his other hand.  
  
Different, he thinks. Something about this is different.  
  
"Replacement?" he asks the guards, and perhaps that explains their presence. New equipment, better, more expensive, requires more intense scrutiny—to make certain it works as intended and he is a suitable recipient. He exists for the Revolution. It is not his arm; it is the People's. He must treat it with care and respect, as he does his body, his mind, for he is an instrument, and the cause is great, much more than a single soldier.  
  
It has always been thus.  
  
Still, he finds it odd he was not informed of the replacement arm before its connection. He will obviously have to retrain his body, and should he not have been fully apprised of the arm's capabilities prior to attachment? Should he not, for the sake of the people, be able to resume operations as swiftly as possible? He could have formulated a new regimen and already been working to implement it, but now he is forced to begin here in the middle, not the start.  
  
With a sigh, he stands, his right side straining to compensate for the unfamiliar—but, no, it is familiar, and it has always been thus, for the People, always—extra weight on his left. The guards do not back up, however. Even as he nods across the floor at the toilet, they remain there blocking his way. Making a face, he then pointedly begins undoing his pants, the two hands slowly working together to unhook the buttons. It is not until his left touches the zipper that they seem to understand, one guard finally stepping back. He then promptly crosses and goes through the process using primarily his left hand as a test of the limb, pissing, fastening, flushing, and washing—and the three guards watch him.  
  
He turns back to face them, stares as they stare, but then a sound from the doorway announces someone entering, and he looks.  
  
"Soldier," the general says.  
  
He nods.  
  
"You have been selected for a great honor," General Karpov continues, gesturing to the new metal arm where before his own—and it has always been thus.  
  
For the People. For he is an instrument of the Revolution.  
  
He blinks, shakes his head, and looks up to see the general has gone silent, watching him and doubtlessly mentally assessing the result of the new prosthetic.  
  
He lifts it up and studies the fingers, the twist as he thinks to make a fist, the release and turn.  
  
"It is a great honor," he then offers aloud, and there is a sound from one of the guards.  
  
"Soldier," the general suddenly says, and he looks up and sees the man's sharp expression, and it is five long seconds before he moves to attention, and he hesitated. Why did he not automatically, instinctively fall into line? The connections are faulty somehow.  
  
"You will immediately resume training," General Karpov orders. "Requalification is two weeks hence, and you will be ready."  
  
"Yes, sir," he affirms.  
  
The general stares a moment longer, and there will likely be mention of this in a report somewhere. "Carry on," he finally says, whirling around and leaving the room.  
  
He doesn't immediately relax—because it is again strange and not strange. Familiar, this is not unusual, the general personally instructing him, but he cannot move as he wishes, think as he must. The arm is heavy and foreign, but it cannot be any significantly heavier than the ones he wore before.  
  
"Resume training," he speaks aloud, the men guarding him as silent as ever. "Down the hall, left, down the stairs, left. Forty minutes running. Start with stretching."  
  
And he moves forward, the guards falling in behind him, and knows as he walks the path to the gymnasium that he has not walked it before.  
  
But, it has always been thus, and he does not stop.

* * *

He slowly comes to. Hit his head, or something. Probably drank too much and said something stupid to someone stupid and Steve no doubt–  
  
Steve.  
  
The light's dim, but his eyes still hurt, pounding in his head, and there's music playing somewhere off in the distance, sick, whistling—fuckin' calliope, circus music, at Coney Island, must be, and then he's about to vomit–  
  
He turns his head, and it's coming out as he tries to roll to the side, but he's stuck, pinned on his back. He almost chokes, scrape and sting of bile, and that means there wasn't a goddamn thing in there to get rid of in the first place. Familiar enough, but no booze then. Fight. Must've– must've been a fight and one to the head. Opens his eyes a crack, and it's spinning, a room, indoors. The room spins, as he's trying to focus, keeps spinning, whirling and red. He twitches, flinches suddenly when there's a flash of something close. He's shaking and cold, shivering, his teeth chattering, and there's a skull, there and then gone, and– and he can't– can't breathe, wet, cold, freezing, can't see, somethin' coming, somethin' comin'—water. Ice, white flashes, blinds him, rushing up. A noise like rumbling and roaring, like a storm or roller coaster or crowd cheering—or a train.  
  
Train. Oh, Christ, where's Steve? What's– ?  
  
He flinches again and again. There was a whiteout and a train and then nothing.  
  
Did he fall off the goddamn train?  
  
Bucky turns and tries to look around again, but his eyes don't work, can't focus 'em. All he picks up is red; whole place is red.  
  
"Hey!" he goes to call out, but his voice is shredded, and it's barely a whisper. Taking a swallow like glass in his throat, he tries again, saying, "Hello? Any– anyone?"  
  
Five seconds, and then on the sixth, something comes close and is abruptly right there in his face. He jerks back but hardly moves an inch, and when he blinks, it's a shadow above him, looming. Someone. It's someone.  
  
"Hey," he whispers, "where the hell am I? What's going on?"  
  
Bucky blinks again rapidly, and slowly he starts to pick up more, eyes finally workin' right.  
  
A man stands there, and he's smiling, and Bucky flinches again. When a hand comes reaching towards him, he jerks back.  
  
Or, he tries to jerk back. He can't, though. And then he can feel it, the pressure, feel it on his legs, his wrist, chest. The man's standing right over him; his hand touches Bucky's forehead; and it's ten seconds before Bucky realizes only his right wrist is tied down.  
  
He looks away, takes his eyes off whoever the hell this guy is and drops 'em down and–  
  
and–  
  
and–  
  
Where is it?!  
  
There's some noise competing with the carnival music, and it's him, a moan, a whine, and he can't stop because where is it? It's not gon– it's there somewhere. Where is it?  
  
Where's his arm?!  
  
Flash of movement and sharp sting in his neck, and he can't– doesn't even manage to turn far enough to look at the man, just at the corner of his vision, a shadow, smiling.  
  
"Quiet now, comrade," comes floating down around Bucky. Sedative.  
  
And he knows his left arm is truly gone and, as Bucky slips under, dizzily wonders if Steve has it, grabbed on, is keeping it for him.  
  
Then he's out.

* * *

He's going to make it. He's going to. Steve's right there, bracing himself, reaching, stretching out, reaching and leaning, reaching and just stretch please come on Barnes you fucking moron Steve fucking goddamn reach please he's right there–  
  
"Grab my hand!" Steve shouts, and it's right there, inches away, not even a foot.  
  
And Bucky tries but has to get closer, just– just a little, or else Steve won't be abl–  
  
"No!" Steve frantically shouts, and it's a warning. And that's when Bucky realizes. That's when he feels it through the numbness of his hands, the vibration of the train, the push of the wind. That's when he hears it, after Steve does, after Steve shouts, after Steve, arm outstretched.  
  
Bucky looks up and meets Steve's eyes.  
  
The railing gives.  
  
And Bucky reaches, shrieking because this isn't– what, no, no, no, no.  
  
Steve's right ther– !  
  
Nothing, oh Christ there's nothing nothing down there. And he squeezes his eyes shut tight, keeps 'em closed, and it's not happening. It's the Cyclone, in– in winter, wind and speed and wet on the tracks as the coaster goes flying down, and Steve's right ther–  
  
And then it's all gone.  
  
And he's falling.

 

 

 


End file.
